


Hold Me in This Wild Wild World

by iliveinfantasies



Category: Ghostbusters (2016), Ghostbusters - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Compliant, Community: femmeslash, Denial!Erin, F/F, Fluff, Holtzbert - Freeform, Light Angst, Mostly Fluff, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-19
Updated: 2016-09-30
Packaged: 2018-08-16 03:17:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8084641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iliveinfantasies/pseuds/iliveinfantasies
Summary: Erin Gilbert is exceptionally good at many things. Physics, math, busting--but denial is one of her very best subjects.The two times Erin and Holtzmann manage to kiss, and Erin writes it off as something else; and the one time they kiss, and Holtzmann makes sure that she doesn't.





	1. Cause in Your Warmth I Forget How Cold It Can Be

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, all!
> 
> I had planned on writing a one-shot after my last fic, but apparently I am incapable of that! The good news is that I have most of chapters 2 and 3 written. The bad news is that I am editing them, so I'm not going to post them yet, but the timeline will be a lot faster with this one.
> 
> I hope you enjoy it. I'm not really used to writing Erin, so I hope that translates.
> 
> As always, my Tumblr is iliveinfantasylife.
> 
> Thank you for reading!

The first time they kissed, it was almost on accident.

 

It was exactly 5:46 on a Tuesday evening, approximately 37 minutes after the disaster that was their last bust (but who was counting), and honestly, all Erin wanted was a bath.

They had spent the last three hours chasing the partially-vaporized ghost of an angry 1930’s car salesman, and Erin, by her count (and her count was usually quite accurate), had been thrown once, fallen twice, and slimed no fewer than four-and-a-half times (the last time she had ducked behind an old Ford, so that literally half of her body had been coated in viscus green goo).

The moment they got back to the firehouse, Holtzmann had hopped out of the drivers seat, engine still running, announcing loudly to the car-gregation (Holtzmann’s word; Patty shook her head at it regularly) that she “CALLED IT!” and ran, curls bouncing around her goggles, to the firehouse door.

It had taken them actually walking into the firehouse ( _after_ turning off the car, Patty grumbling about _these damn mad scientists_ for a solid five minutes) and hearing the third floor shower running to realize that Holtzmann was had been “calling” the use of the shower.

Abby, who had gotten a large glob of Ectoplasm in her hair during the fight (“Heyyy, nice new hair gel, boss!” “…thanks, Kevin.”) _,_ rolled her eyes and muttered about making a no-dibs rule.

Erin, covered from head to toe _and in every crack_ with ectoplasm, had then spent next 37 minutes attempting to do tasks that didn’t involve her sitting down, walking too much, or really touching anything at all.

 

She spent ten minutes staring at her chalk board, trying to calculate equations; and while she was more than capable of calculating equations in her head, her increasing irritation at the fact that she could not actually write anything down in her current state caused her to quit that exercise.

So she stood outside the bathroom door, arms crossed, frowning, slightly, and checking the second floor clock (a mishmash of five different clock-pieces that Holtzmann had rescued from the library dump) every five minutes. Thirty minutes in, she started pounding on the door, not caring—okay, caring, but not enough—that her knocks were leaving fist-sized ectoplasm marks on the bathroom door.

“ _Holtzmann,_ ” she called into the wood for the fifteenth time. “What on _earth_ are you doing in there, inventing a new—“ and then, all at once, the shower stopped and the door popped open, to reveal a towel-clad Holtzmann standing in the middle of what could only be described as a small lake. Erin gaped. Holtzmann grinned at her, wiggling her eyebrows, wringing out her hair onto the already-soaked floor. Erin couldn’t find any words.

Scores of water dripped from the tub, the curtain, the sink, any surface that water could feasibly cling to. Tiny dirt particles floated in mess, giving the whole room a slightly speckled quality. A large, metal machine with faint glowing lights stood in the middle of the whole scene. Erin just shook her head, mouth open, unsure whether to stare at the floor or the loosely wrapped towel.

“Eeeeeerin,” Holtzmann drawled, grin spreading widely across her face. “Hellooooo there.” She followed Erin’s gaze which was thankfully, at that point, fixed on the bathroom sink. She turned back to Erin, grin growing even wider.

“Thought I’d try out my new machine. It’s a water vacuum!” Holtzmann accentuated these words with an enthusiastic fist-pump. “Guess it didn’t work too well, though. Maybe a few more tweaks.” She shrugged, lightly, as though the entirely of the third floor bathroom was not covered in New York’s newest body of water.

Erin took a step forward, opening her mouth to speak again, when she felt her foot slide on the accumulated puddles of water on the floor. She slid forward, waving her arms wildly, and fell for the third time that evening. Instinctively, she grabbed for the closest solid object, and realized far too late that that object happened to be Holtzmann.

They crashed to the floor, Erin smacking her head on the wet tile, Holtzmann landing with a quiet _oof_ on top of her. Holtzmann recovered first, propping herself up on her elbows.

“Gee, Gilbert, you could have just asked,” Holtzmann said, fluttering her eyelashes, the corner of her mouth quirking up into a lopsided grin. Erin’s face burned bright, letting off a heat that she was fairly certain could have powered the entirety of the firehouse water heater, and then some. She opened her mouth, and huffed out an indignant puff of air. It was originally supposed to be a retort, she was pretty sure, but it came out as more of a strangled gurgle. _Very eloquent, Doctor Gilbert,_ she thought bitterly. _Excellent way to impress with your brilliant repertoire._ She chose to blame it on the lack of airflow to her lungs, which were currently being compressed by an eccentric engineer, towel-clad and—wait, were those her _goggles_ on her head? She wore her goggles into the shower? Erin shook her head. She was cold, and slimy, and water was beginning to soak into the hems of her suit, and she needed to get up, _now_.

Erin shifted her elbows, pressing her palms into the damp, gritty grout of the bathroom tile. She leaned up to help them both up just as Holtzmann leaned down to press herself upward, and their foreheads knocked together with an almost-comical _conk_ , like the hollow of coconuts clacking, and then they were wincing at each other with their eyes half shut from surprise.

They both laid there for a moment, in surprise, Holtzmann’s hair drippingrivulets onto Erin’s cheek, mixing with the Ectoplasm to create tiny swirls of lime green slime around her head.

And then, Holtzmann shifted her weight, slightly, so that her elbows were bent lower and her face hovered just-too-close to Erin’s own, And Erin’s breath came fast-and-hot, despite the rapidly cooling flood, moving lightly through her lips.

And then she leaned up.

And their lips pressed together.

Erin felt it like an ocean wave, cold-then-hot-then-absolutely-everywhere, ice issuing its way through her veins.

And just as suddenly, it was gone. The cold, the heat, the ice—and the pressure on her lungs. She blinked rapidly for a moment, eyelashes sticky and thick. She sat up.

Holtzmann was standing next to her, offering a hand to help Erin up, but Erin hardly noticed. She didn’t trust herself to notice.

Instead, she pushed herself up on the soggy tiles, and backed up slowly into the bathroom.

“Uh…” she began, then shook herself, hard. No. It had been an accident, like the falling-and-the-grabbing-and-the-coconut-heads. She forced a smile. Holtzmann was watching her, arms crossed, one eyebrow cocked upward. Erin waved, cheerfully.

“Uh, yep. Great. Thanks for the shower!” then she turned and shut the door, slowly, before reaching out to twist the shower faucets. Her mouth was too-dry and her whole body was drenched in watery slime, but in the safety of the bathroom everything was almost calm and almost normal and almost clear, despite the steam. It had been nothing, she was certain now. They had tripped and fallen and conked their heads, and their lips had touched in the chaos of it, that was all.

 

Erin peeled off her jumpsuit, stepping into the water, washing all thought of it from her mindandskinand.

 

Because really, really, it had basically been an accident.

 

Basically. But not quite.


	2. And in Your Heat, I Feel How Cold It Can Get

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The second time they kiss, it is under very unnerving circumstances. And it's not real kissing, not really.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy SHIT you guys, this chapter turned out WAY more intense than I anticipated. PLEASE KNOW that the next and final chapter is not this type of angst, and it a real, actual kiss (magic!). Anyway, as always, you can find me on Tumblr at iliveinfantasylife. I hope you enjoy it, and try not to kill me for the hell I just put Erin through. Poor kid.

The second time they kissed, it wasn’t really kissing, not _really._

It was because Holtzmann has a penchant for sticking long metal pieces of wire onto the wrong sides of car batteries, and digging drill-bit-sized holes into junkyard-grade circuit boards.

And often--most of the time, really, though Erin could not quite figure out _how_ \--Holtzmann made it through these endeavors, slightly singed, but mostly fine.

Except for the times that she didn't.

 

The first time Erin was there for it, she and Abby were downstairs, attempting to edit their brand-new chapter of _Ghosts From Our Past_. Patty was out getting lunch— _not_ Chinese, Patty had insisted, because “if I eat one more damn tub of kung-pao chicken, I am gonna start sweating sweet and sour sauce.”

Kevin was in the living room, jumping around to a slightly-fuzzy Jazzercise tape. They had all been horrified to learn of this hobby of his, but he had been insistent that it was vital to keeping up his “Ghostbusting physique,” and none of them, not even Patty, could convince him otherwise. So it stayed.

Holtzmann was upstairs, as always, working on what she had dubbed “a ghost-toaster—a GHOSTER!” None of the other Ghostbusters had quite figured out exactly what such a device would be used for, but Holtzmann had been utterly insistent, so none of them had bothered pushing the subject too far

Erin was perched on the edge of her chair, bangs slightly mussed on the sides. Between Holtzmann’s bangings and screechings, and Kevin’s Jazzercise music, she kept having to continuously press the palms of her hands to hear ears to try and block out the sound. Yet another bang issued from upstairs, followed by a sharp squeal. Erin gritted her teeth. A loud, all-too-familiar _POP_ rang through the firehouse, causing Erin to jump slightly. This was followed by a far-less-familiar muffled _thud_ , and a faint flicker of the lights. They waited for a moment, ears cocked, eyebrows raised slightly, waiting for Holtzmann’s usual call of, “I’m a-oKAY, thanks fer asking!” Because working with Holtzmann was, as Abby affectionately put it, quite literally like working with a toddler that had access to nuclear lasers. And, much like with toddlers, no noise meant nothing good.

But five seconds passed. Then ten. And, despite the warm of the summer-to-fall breeze through the window, Erin began to feel cold wash over her skin. She jumped to her feet, suddenly panicked, and ran for the stairs. Behind her, she became vaguely aware that Abby had spun the opposite direction, reaching for the telephone.

 

Halfway up the stairs, Erin heard Abby’s loud-but-slightly-shaky voice state, “Yes, 911? I think my friend might have blown herself up. No, not with a gun. No, not—no, I think it might have been a toaster? Yes, a toaster. No, I’m not— _no._ Holtzmann. Jillian Holtzmann. Yes. Yes, okay.”

And under any other circumstances, Erin would have started laughing, because at the mention of Holtzmann’s name, all argument from the dispatcher seemed to have ceased, and of _course_ Abby and Holtz would be familiar with the 911 dispatchers, _of course_.

But it was not funny, now, and all she could feel as she ran was a slow sinking feeling in her chest, settling sediment-like-anxiety in her stomach, her heart, her lungs.

A metallic scent hit her as she reached the landing, a tinny crackling noise, and the slight buzzing of a very, very active machine. Those were the noises she heard. But no 80’s dance music, no bangs, no anxiety-producing flirtatious greetings sent her way.

Nothing. And then, she looked down.

And Erin didn’t hesitate, not even to _wonder_ , not for a second.

Because there, in a crumpled pile of just-singed curls and slightly smoking driving gloves, was Holtzmann. _Her_ Holtzmann. No, _not_ her Holtzmann. What even was that?

She lunged across the room, dropping to the floor beside Holtzmann. What were the rules with electrocution again? _Ohm's Law, voltage equals currant..._ Erin shook her head. Not _those_ rules, Gilbert. Get it together.

She couldn't waste anymore time. She leaned down and put her mouth on Holtzmann’s.

Instead of waves it felt like a shock-to-the-system, her very own electrocution except that no, that was not quite right, because it was lighter than electricity.

And then she mentally slapped herself, because she was performing CPR, not getting into the heat of a steamy makeout session.

Not that she wanted to.

Breathe, press, pulse. Breathe, press, pulse. This continued for a disturbingly long amount of time, though Erin could not say how long, precisely, because despite it being physically impossible (and physics were _always right_ ) she felt very much as thought time had stopped altogether.

Then finally, _finally_ , Holtzmann’s eyelids twitched. Her lashes fluttered, her mouth opened, gasping in air for a moment. Erin choked, stopping her movements, hovering over Holtzmann’s face. Her entire body felt like it was floating. Holtzmann opened her mouth, again, eyes focusing on Erin’s face. It broke out into a very, very shaky grin.

“Hey, Gil…” Holtzmann began. Her voice was a hoarse whisper. She coughed, breathed, then tried again. “Hey, Gilbert. At least buy a girl dinner first.” She tried to add a surreptitious wink, but instead coughed again.

Erin did not respond. Could not bring herself to say anything. Instead, she leaned herself backwards, balancing on the palms of her hands. Somewhere in the distance she could hear the frantic calls of Abby’s voice, caught up and swallowed by the wail of sirens blaring amidst the faint trails of Jazzercise music still filtering through the floorboards. She couldn’t quite hear anything clearly—it all felt far, distanced, so far away that she felt under water. And somewhere amidst that chaos, the seed of Erin’s panic and relief grew and withered, cycling, pounding like Holtzmann’s heart (she exhaled _hard_ ). She leaned herself up on the floor, balancing, and pressed the dusty pads of her fingertips to her lips, salt-slick with tears she hadn’t known were there, and felt along the soft skin. Because suddenly, more than anything else, what she felt the most deeply was loss of pressure there.

 

And Erin Gilbert, top particle physicist, mathematician, consistent purveyor of the scientific method and the truth of all things, had absolutely no idea what to do with that information.


	3. Now Draw Me Close

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The third time was definitely not an accident, and it was definitely real.
> 
> And for Erin Gilbert, that is the real problem.
> 
> Some internalized biphobia in this chapter, you have been warned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy crap, you guys. This chapter went in a way I completely did not expect. But when your characters talk to you, and all that...  
> This is far more angsty and introspective than I had intended. BUT, as promised, it does end well. I just hope it isn't OOC.
> 
> As always, I am on Tumblr at iliveinfantasylife.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

The third time they kissed, it was absolutely, positively, unequivocally, one-hundred-percent not an accident.

Though that didn’t stop Erin from pretending that it was.

Because it was a day of hot copper and chalk dust clouds, the sort of day that buzzed with mechanical whirring and furrowed concentration.

Because she had cried out in excitement upon finally solving her equation, the one that had taken her _two weeks_ , and she had looked across the room to see Holtzmann's genuinely excited, dimpled grin flashed at her from behind the worktable. Because she had actually joined in when Holtzmann had cranked up the music to celebrate (“Everything's a celebration, _Doctorrrrr_ Gilbert!"). Because she had felt Holtzmann's body heat, seen the thin sheen of sweat on her brow as they danced. Because she had looked up to see that _spark_ in Holtzmann's eyes, the same one that appeared every time Holtzmann got some kind of recklessly awful idea for an "improvement" to one of the household appliances ("Holtz, the toilet does _not,_ I repeat, does _not_ , need a self-cooking hotdog maker." "But what if I get _hungry?"_ ) Because in one swift moment, one small lapse of judgement, Erin had faltered.

Because the kiss had been soft, and warm, and fervent.

And one-sided.

And Erin had pulled away in time to see Holtzmann's eyes widen in surprise, all trace of the spark gone, before backing herself up toward the door with an awkward, "Uh, yep! Got to...uh. Go...uhm..."

But what she had to go had never been revealed, because at that point she'd turned toward the stairs and bolted. Much to her dismay, she is also fairly certain that she might have shot Holtzmann some finger-guns on her way out, but she couldn't quite remember.

She also didn't remember the two-story run to the roof, nor did she remember twisting her ankle in panic on the way up. But that's where she was now, overlooking the city, ankle throbbing lightly with a dull ache that she couldn't seem to shake off. Her chest ached, too, throbbing in time to her ankle.

She realized, belatedly, that she really should not have run upstairs. Because now, she was stuck. Now, there was nowhere else to go--nowhere except downstairs, at least. Which was the last place she wanted to go, because she was 99.9% sure (because as a physicist, she understood with absolute certainty that nothing could be 100% sure—she and Abby had argued about this point before) that what was waiting for her downstairs was Holtzmann. Holtzmann, who could spend three hours studying the function of one specific bolt. Holtzmann, who would never, ever leave this "unfinished business" alone. Holtzmann, whose eyes had relayed to her nothing but utter shock when they broke apart.

 

Erin slumped down into a corner of the roof, pressing herself into the short walls, grimy streaks of soot forming along her the sides of her sweatshirt. It was dusty and full of cobwebs, and just a little too cold in the November air. But she couldn't bring herself to care.

Actually, that was a lie. She did care. She had spent so long being clean and pressed and set into perfect form that the idea of letting soot sit too long on her skin felt _wrong_. It was itchy and unnatural to her, like when she used the wrong type of dryer sheets for her clothes, and not at all like the times she had gotten slimed. Because that felt different, somehow. Because every time she got slimed, it was followed by tea and a hot shower and Holtzmann's thrilled peals of laughter, rough and free and open.

No, it wasn't that she didn't care. It was that the wind carried too long, and too hard, and too loud, and it smelled like soot and oil and smoke and all of the other things that might come with the smog-from-the-city. Except for her, those things didn't smell like smog-from-the-city. They smelled like Holtzmann. And that, well. That was something she just couldn't face right now.

 

Her life had always been neat and ordered, to the best of her ability. She thrived on consistency and stability, counted on things not changing, and anything from a person to a tube of Tom's brand spearmint toothpaste could be "her anchor" for the day (or the hour), depending on how frantic everything felt at the time. She had spent her childhood years watching her parents be as exceedingly "normal" as possible, and anything that had strayed from that extremely narrow definition had no place in their lives. Ghost stories were not normal. Paranoid delusions were not normal. Best friends who "perpetuated those delusions" were not normal. And kissing girls was, in no uncertain terms, _not normal._ So she had shoved those ideas away. Pushed away her thoughts and wants and, yes, even her best friend, and instead pursued a life of _stability_ and _hard work_ and a _boring and tolerable but not very tolerating boyfriend_.

But then, then. Then, there was Holtzmann. Erin repeated the woman’s name over and over in her head, like a mantra she couldn’t quite shake. Holtzmann was not neat and ordered. Holtzmann was not “normal.” Holtzmann was scorched desks and sandwiches with too-many-pickles and Divo cassette tapes and blonde curls flying over scratched goggles and, and—

And all that Erin wanted, really, if she was being honest. And that scared her above all else.

It scared the part of her that could feel the memories lingering, frayed and crumbling like old cloth, just at the edge of her grasp.

“Erin?”

Erin blinked, confused for a moment, because that was _not_ the name she had been repeating in her head. She instinctively looked toward the door, where the voice had come from. Her stomach dropped heavily. Her throat felt rough, and her cheeks grew hot, as though she had just swallowed molten metal. Holtzmann stepped toward her a few paces.

"Holtz?" She breathed out, so quietly that even she could barely hear it over the roar of the wind on the roof. Holtzmann must have though, because she wiggled her eyebrows at Erin.

"The one and only," she said, pretending to take off a fake hat, and making a very deep bow. Erin almost smiled. Almost. Then, Holtzmann straightened up, her face taking on a more serious hue than Erin had ever seen before. It was sharper, more angular that usual. Holtzmann took a step toward Erin, and Erin’s breathing grew labored, harsh, as though she couldn’t get enough oxygen. She looked down.

" _Erin,”_ came Holtzmann's voice again, much closer, now, firmer and steadier and rougher than it had ever been. Erin glanced up to see Holtzmann crouching in front of her, surveying her with the sort of look one might give a feral cat. Erin swallowed, hard. This was not her. She was a Professional, with a capital letter. She did _not_ shy away like this. She did _not_ kiss coworkers. She did _not_ kiss women. And, most of all, she did _not_ kiss Holtzmann. Holtzmann, who was the opposite of all things neat and tidy. Holtzmann, whose idea of “cleaning up” was to gather her pile of scraps from one side of her worktable, and dump them on the other side of her work table, while occasionally launching the stray screw at Erin’s chalkboard. Holtzmann, whose hair smelled like smoke and cheap hairspray, and whose skin was rough and scarred in ways Erin couldn’t quite understand, and whose lips tasted like beeswax and bubblegum flavored mouthwash, which Erin had a sneaking suspicion came from the kids section of the dental aisle. Holtzmann, who now surely hater her. Holtzmann, Holtz--

And then, Holtzmann’s hand was on her arm. A sharp, searing pressure.

And she had found her anchor.

Perhaps the most important one she had _ever had_. Well, since Abby, maybe. And the thought was utterly terrifying. Because as they all knew, she was perfectly capable of cutting the ropes to her anchors, and leaving them behind.

Holtzman cocked her head slightly to the left, pushing her yellow goggles up into her hair haphazardly with her free hand. Then, she grinned again, shooting her single dimple Erin’s direction, just like she had before—when? After the equation? God, that felt like hours ago. Perhaps it had been. And then the grin softened info something altogether new. A cocked half-smile, a stray lock of hair, a quiet shush of a breath.

“Hey,” Holtzmann said, in a quiet voice that Erin didn’t know Holtzmann possessed. From the quick flash of surprise on Holtzmann’s own face, she hadn’t been aware, either, but she recovered quickly.

“Hey,” Holtzmann said again. “It’s _okay_.”

And then, finally, _finally,_ Holtzmann’s lips pressed against her own. Erin let out a choked-sounding sob against Holtzmann’s lips, before pressing herself closer. And Doctor Erin Gilbert, Outstanding Heterosexual, Professor of Particle Physics at Columbia University, Shining Example of Normalcy, was kissing Holtzmann back.

They broke apart, panting slightly, flushed in ways that felt entirely wrong for November, but felt entirely right at the same time. And Erin looked up into Holtzmann’s eyes, and saw there the _spark_ , that same one, that _same one_ she hadn’t even realized she had wanted _so badly_ but was so glad to see there.

“Sooo, _Doctor Gilbert,”_ Holtzmann said, grinning again. “I propose an experiment. I propose we try that trial again. Because a scientist, such as yourself, could not possibly leave it at only _three_ trials.”

Erin started at that, eyebrows knitting together slightly. “Three?”

Holtzmann raised an eyebrow, grinning even wider. “What, you think I didn’t _notice_ the other times? What kind of scientist do you think I _am_ , Gilbert?”

And anxiety settled into Erin’s chest again, deep and heavy and too-consuming, but choked laughter forced its way out. She fell lightly into Holtzmann’s chest, laughing, tears pricking lightly at the corners of her eyes. She tilted her head up again, and pulled Holtzmann in for another kiss.

Because fuck if her titles hadn’t been _all wrong_. If they hadn’t _always_ been wrong, all along. Because this, this was anything but normal.

 

And she had never, ever been more happy about that fact.


End file.
